Irréversible
by Arka1248
Summary: The last days of Sauron, the Witch-king and Khamul from their point of view.
1. The servant

The city burnt. High in the air, he swept over the battlefield. Currents of gale blew against his body and he welcomed them. He pictured himself as a hunter on his hunt. Down below men-ants were squirming, immersed in fighting in their futile attempt to withstand the irresistible might of Mordor. Long had he thirsted to disturb that white-walled anthill and to set them afire.

He detected his prey - a white steed and its undaunted rider. Without any hesitation his steady hands pulled the bowstring back as his cold calculating eyes locked on the target. He let the arrow fly. It hit the horse, piercing an artery on its neck. The steed fell in shock, and with it fell the king of Rohan, crushed beneath its weight. What an irony, he thought. The Witch-king forced his beast to swoop down.

If the king was still alive, he would be granted an exceptional honour - the honour of being dispatched by the hand of the Lord of the Nazgul. Yielding to dismay, the mortals around their fallen leader paid due tribute to him with their chorus of terror. Their cries of fear and the reek of blood formed a symphony of battle and he relished in it, drowned in it - in his feast of gore. Blood, the anticipated prize of the battle. was what he lusted for. And he smelt it already .

He landed precisely on the slaughtered horse. The impact seemed hard enough to crush bones of the mortal beneath. Delighted in this thought he let his lips twitch in a semblance of a smile.

Drawing his attention, a voice, thin and reckless, dared to confront him. A warrior of the Rohirrim. The Witch-king cared not for the concerns of a mortal; and even less for one that would soon share the fate of his king. Least of all he intended to shed blood sparingly this day.

The warrior before him removed his helmet and revealed his face and long golden hair, his eyes wild.

For him, though, the clang of arms, curses, cries of the wounded and other clamours of the battlefield dimmed. The only thing he saw, was her.

 _A woman._

She could not see it, but the Witch-king of Angmar curved his lips in contempt.

 _Pathetic creature._

In resentment he tightened his grip on the mace he was holding. Her fear mingled with rage was almost palpable, he could almost smell it.

And then her words struck him.

 _But no living man.. am I?_

It stung his mind, stirring his memory.

With effort he recollected the events long past.

 _Arnor. Outskirts of Fornost. The brazen elf and his nonsense._

For a brief moment doubt arose in the Witch-king. Yet, no words would impede the Lord of the Nazgul. Unrelenting as steel, bestowed with the blessings of his Lord, he drove any hesitation away.

 _Rip out her heart._

The beast heeded his thought and shrieking, it assaulted Eowyn, Eomund's daughter, wings spread, beak and claw aimed at her breast.

Yet before she graced his sight with her hot bloody insides, he lost balance in his armor and hit the ground hard - and found his beast reduced to a useless heap of meat, decapitated by her sword. She was swift.

 _How dare you? You, woman!_

He was going to punish her for her insolence. Seething in cold rage, he arose. His eyes narrowed in anticipation, imagining how her silly skull would crack under his mace, adorning her hair with blood, brain and shards of bone.

 _Learn your place._

Invoking all his hatred, he dealt a heavy blow that crushed her shield together with her arm. Unable to withstand his strength the weakling stumbled to her knees. The next one would send her, where she belonged to. Adamant about this, he was not going to hesitate.

Now it was time to end her miserable life.

* * *

The blade severed his mental leash - the connection to the will, that had driven him was cut. As if he turned into a limb ripped from the body - rent skin, torn nerves, sliced muscles and shattered bone - ripped from his Master. In agony he screamed, the anguish of that forceful separation unbearable. Pierced by both blades his wraithlike body faded. And then his disembodied spirit entered the Realm of Shadows, helpless and powerless, shaking like a dry leaf on the wind.

Still, the magic of the ring persisted, hindering his involuntary departure to the Halls of Mandos and pinning him to the battlefield.

 _Master! I beseech thee! Do not forsake me, my Lord!_

In despair he called over and over again into emptiness, trying to reach his Lord's mind in vain. The bond, that had lasted for over millennia, was no more.

Deaf silence was the only answer.


	2. The master

From atop the spire the blazing Eye focused on the battlefield, bound by its Master's will. This magic proved indispensable during their war. Yet in his current state it also proved to be demanding beyond measure. Maintaining it made him exhausted both in body and mind - it attached yet another connection to his soul and all of them were strained to their limits and brought him pain like outstretched nerves. But with this spell he could descry all events on the Pelennor fields, follow his armies and those of their enemy.

Sleepless and tired Sauron leant on the table, covered with the maps and divisions. With irritation he rubbed against the sore suture on the left socket to relieve the pulsating ache inside. The socket was empty and the lid sewn up – a sacrifice required for the all-seeing Eye atop his tower. The other eye, yellow and now with reddish streaks contemplated the charts. Constantly gnawing at him that ache distracted him and did not let him concentrate. After his last reembodiment he found himself in the most pitiful state, old, weak and fragile, also drained, despite all the words of loyalty consolation and affection his servant would whisper to him. Worse were only in the old days of Angband when Morgoth tormented him in attempt to make him obedient and compliant and then for his failures.

The only thing that remained unmarred was his hair, long and wavy, its blond colour still unbleached. He ran his fingers through the strands, recollecting the time when Morgoth ordered him to cut his hair short lest they reminded him of the lights of the Blessed Lands. The rest of himself he found pitiful and he would be ashamed to appear like that before his own kin. After the fall of Angband he regained his hope but when he chose the wrong path of bloodshed he could not tell. Perhaps it was in the Eonwe's tent or perhaps Celebrimbor was fault that his plan went awry.

Eventually, driving away his recollections of the past, he let his hand languidly to move the tiny figures, that represented the warring sides, orcs, men, mumaks, the army of Gondor. His Nazgul. They Eye would tell him their positions and all of them were bound to him with thousands of invisible cords. On creatures like orcs, beasts or his ringwraiths - he could directly enforce his will.

The reinforcements from Rohan did not take him by surprise. Those pesky riders did not change the course of the battle and the one who could deal with them had already been unleashed to the battlefield.

For an instant, he considered switching the magical Eye for his servant's s eyesight to observe the battle from the Nazgul's perspective who's flying beast would provide a different angle on the scene. Yet it would make his captain aware and Sauron did not want to confound or distract him and he decided against this.

 _Let him play his fill._

Still, it went well, the fortress of Minas Tirith would not withstand too long, the first level had been already breached. His most powerful lieutenant stood in the lead of the armies, the one whom he granted an unlimited extent of trust, the best of the best. Even though his own arms might be weakened, the ones of his servant imposed his will in the way most implacable and unyielding.

The Eye tugged at his mind and revealed him the death of the King of Rohan. At this sight the corner of his mouth twitched.

 _Pathetic death for a pathetic creature._

And then he choked and his fingers trembled and pried, releasing a tiny catapult. It tumbled, knocking down an orcish troop. He did not care for one of the connections blasted, causing an excruciating surge of pain in his chest. As if the small organ, that served as his heart, was being torn apart by wicked burning claws. It made him bite his lip and bend double. He sank to his knees, coughing and crouching in silent agony. Aching and itching, his sole remaining eye was crying blood since his vision blurred and reddened. Blood flooded his mouth as well, he spat it out on the floor and on his hands. It might have smeared his clothes, he did not care. He only cared for that bond. He could not find the bond, that had been torn. The strongest one of them all that connection was to preserve for eternity and now it was gone and with it went a part of his soul, leaving behind a vast and deep bleeding wound. Overwhelmed by the pain and the loss his mind resigned, and he collapsed on the floor, losing control of his exhausted body.

* * *

"Master, what happened?"

He heard Khamul, his second-in-command rushing to him. So, enough time had pass for the remaining Nazgul to return from the battle and hours since he had fainted. The servant dared to enter his chambers unbidden, but he could not ponder upon that at the moment. At the moment his consciousness felt utterly numb. With care his servant helped him to move from the floor to the couch.

Without speaking, Sauron ordered him to leave with a brief glance. Only then he reclined on the pillows; transfixed, his eye stared blindly into nowhere.

Days passed and he remained half-lying, unable to force himself to move, and giving in to languor and the dull hollow ache inside his chest. Weakened, the spell atop the Tower reduced the Eye's vision into an undistinguishable bleak mass as if obstructed by a veil - a sign of the loss in his power and the first consequence of their recent loss in this war.

Yet again his thought turned to Melian, who accepted the rules of the Children and played their games of affection, empathy and emotion until her fana turned into something akin to their hroar. What sport did she find in it? He wished he knew the answer. He wished he could talk to her. Perhaps she had answers to many things that bothered him since he had began his new war.

He had always thought himself above those petty aspects. He used them, twisted them to his advantage, but never meddled with them himself. Yet now he did not know, why now he was unable to disregard this blow dealt to him and strike back. Only Melian would find the right words and she remained beyond any reach. Since the times in Valinor he remembered her as dark haired, grey-eyed and stunning in her beauty. He whom he had lost, was her descendant, after all, of her precious Maiarin blood that flowed in his veins and what made him so exceptional among mortals. Whether it was not the only reason he could not tell.


	3. 2 The servant

After the battle several days passed and the servants of the Dark Lord did not receive any new orders, no one was summoned for a meeting concerning their failed assault and the course of the war. No one of them was granted an audience, not even Khamul, the second after the Witch-king. Restless and agitated, he paced at the entrance to their Master's chambers and with impatience waited for the Master's call.

After the Witch-kings fall, he gathered all his resolve and proclaimed himself the Captain of the Nazgul. The rest of them acknowledged his claim, but for Khamul it meant little. The only person whose approval meant everything did not give his blessings yet and the papers were not signed. Every minute these facts gnawed on him. Yet after the fall of the Witch-king his chance was so close, he only needed to reach out his arm and take it.

He had never tried to rival the Witch-king before. Their Captain's authority over them proved unquestionable, he was free to discipline them as he deemed due. With his mercilessness and his singular might he was not someone to be challenged recklessly. Applying to their Master would be useless, Sauron made it clear to the all of them, that he would tolerate no strife among them. Therefore the Witch-king's appointment was non-debatable and such an influence of this Numenorean barbarian on their Master had always remained a mystery for Khamul. Why did the Master value him so much, Khamul could not guess, he only could obey.

But when their captain fell to his own arrogance, the Easterling believed, it was time to come forward.

Still, the doors to their Master's chambers remained shut and his mind deaf to any attempts of communication, and leaving Khamul's hands tied. All that he and the Nazgul could do, was to wait at the doors day and night and to share their thoughts and assumptions.

Even more days passed until finally Khamul received the summons to deliver his reports. Eagerly he entered Sauron's chambers but strove to conceal his excitement. He bowed, gaze down, but yearned to look at the Maia, yet none of servants dared to stare directly at their Master's face. He was still reclining on the couch, the same as when Khamul had left him. It made Khamul wonder in what mood he was at the moment and whether he, Khamul, would be promoted to his so long desired position.

As per usual he felt the familiar awe in his Lord's presence - all of them deemed him beautiful even despite his missing eye. Khamul wished he was permitted to run his hand through his Master's hair, in its golden brightness so exotic for the eye of an Easterling. Maybe even tug at it to straighten a curl. Instead, he only clenched his fist to remind himself of his position. The Master could read their minds at will and Khamul was terrified by the possible retribution that could follow those bold thoughts. Sauron had never been unjust to them, nor to any of his other minions, but when someone turned into the source of his displeasure - the retribution always followed swift and harsh. Clemency was not the trait one could apply to their Lord.

With a steady voice Khamul recounted the events of the battle. It was not his fault after all, the Witch-king was the one to blame, not himself.

While he was heeding to instructions and their further plan, he risked a swift glance at his Master's face. It seemed serene, without any semblance of emotion and his voice sounded calm. Unwillingly Khamul found himself coaxed and his precaution left him. He wanted to act and the time apparently came.

"Yes, my lord, I shall obey", he said in the end. "May I ask thee something?"

Sauron nodded slightly, his gaze upon Khamul unreadable.

Khamul counted a heartbeat and spoke.

"Wilt thou name me the First of the Nazgul?"

Before he could even blink, he was forced to raise his gaze to meet the glare of the yellow eye. To his dismay, it was glowing with ire, its slit pupil thinned in a line. Through his own bound eyes, it scorched his mind along with every nerve in his body. He started to shake with pain and fear like an eel over the small fire. Yet before the heat became too insufferable and his mouth opened to scream in agony, the torment ceased as abruptly as it began. He fell on his knees, trembling and not sure if out of pain or relief.

 _"No."_

Short and rigid, this word branded his ravaged mind.

"Please, forgive the audacity of thy servant, my Lord", he wheezed with his mouth dry, his tongue and lips barely serving him. How could he make the mistake of trading grace for displeasure, he dearly regretted his words. The Witch-king proved supreme, even when dead.

"Leave". The voice of his Master suddenly sounded listless and weary. Involuntarily Khamul looked at him again. To his bewilderment, he could swear, that the face before him contorted as if on the verge of weeping.

 _Impossible._

It astounded him to the extreme and made him forget about his own punishment.

"I…", he began choking. Then he stopped and gathered himself. "My Lord, if there is anything I can do for thee. Anything. My greatest joy is to please thee. "

The Maia did not answer. Khamul felt his heart pound, deafening in poignant silence as time seemed to stop. Desperate, Khamul approached him and knelt. His hands took the one of his Master and he placed a kiss on it.

"Master, am I not worthy of thy trust?"

After a brief pause he heard the reply in his mind.

 _You are. The command is yours. But not the position, that is occupied by another._

The painful words permeated his mind and Khamul gritted his teeth.

 _He occupies your heart. Something, that lies there instead of your heart. He occupies something, where is no place for me or for any of us. Even though you may not be aware of it._

 _Dead, but still a rival._

These thoughts came unbidden, incoherent like a flood he could not stall.

"The command is yours. Isn't that what you wanted?" the lifeless voice of his Master broke the silence at last, echoing the mental message and putting an end to this audience.

With his joints awkwardly stiff Khamul rose, bowed again and left. He had won and he had lost and the taste of it was bitter.


	4. 2 The master

_**Harad, centuries ago**_

The stench of rotting wounds and bodily wastes filled the small room. The heat from outdoors only added it's share, making the place nearly unbearable to stay in for any mortal.

Nonetheless, the Maia sat down onto the edge of the bed to contemplate the captive before him. It was apparent that the Haradrim had not healed him and had barely attended to his most basic needs.

The man was dying. Blisters disfigured his whole upper body. The charred skin showed clear signs of rot; his face deformed beyond recognition. His lips and one of the bloodshot eyes melted into a near indistinguishable mass of flesh. No hroa could withstand boiling oil. The intoxication had spread through his blood vessels and made him still and quiet.

The Maia's senses perceived him clinging somewhere between the darkness of unconsciousness and the excruciating agony of reality. The stridor of his swollen larynx was the only sound to break the painful silence in this room of death.

Still, the South and the West rarely, if ever, showed any clemency in war.

The Numenorean was dying, yet somehow still clinging to life despite his grave wounds. How many days had passed since his capture? The Maia had never before encountered such a vicious tenacity of life. How could a mere mortal lie hopeless and forsaken in such a state, refusing to give in and pass on? A couple of days, maybe, but not this long.

The Maia concentrated in an attempt to register the other's heart beats.

Beat…

...And beat…

Painful long moments of silence.

Beat...

 _Too slow. His end is near._

Sauron extended a tentacle of his thought to reach beyond the borders of the man's mind. Pain downed mental defences. His mind rendered no resistance. Yet the only whole eye slowly opened, detecting his presence, striving to focus on his visitor's light figure. Their connection allowed the Maia to skim through the necessary memories.

 _The successful war campaign. Conquered cities. The last opposing town._

The Maia smirked when he dove deeper into the memory, searching for motives, personal strives, desires. He ran through them like a deck of playing cards, peering into the most hidden recesses of the man's mind.

So, the Prince relished in war, in action, and in the bloody spree of his sword. Idleness invoked a feeling of engulfing emptiness in his chest and soul. It dragged him into the depths he did not desire to discern.

 _Interesting._

More memories revealed themselves.

 _The last overconfident siege and its consequences. The reckless assault and the boiling oil from the walls. The excruciating pain and then, darkness._

The Maia ceased his reading of the man's mind that had opened like a book. But he didn't need any more information. The rest had been conveyed to him by the Haradrim on his arrival.

"We found him on the battlefield, my Lord. His armour proved him a captive of value." As the Maia had stood before him, the Haradrim Captain had not been able to conceal the light shaking in his voice. "We sent a letter with ransom conditions, but received no answer. It is something we cannot explain. That's why we called for you."

"We appreciate your honourable fighting. What of the captive… Leave it for my concern."

The Maia found the answer quite easily. The Prince's strife with the Queen was well-known to him. The ever roaming rumours and a good amount of Black Numenoreans made Mordor constantly aware of everything that had happened in the West.

It seemed she had found a good way to get rid of her kinsman. Eventually men did die in war. His death turned into a convenient little trifle. A rare chance for her. And a rare chance for Sauron.

The Maia once again returned into the consciousness of the mortal before him.

"Your people renounced you", he spoke at last. The man lay still, but the Maia sensed that his soft whisper disquieted the man's drowsiness. His shield against the awareness and its agony faded. Sauron smirked at that inward ripple.

"Your fate is going to be determined now and I give you a choice." He gently touched the mind with another whisper.

"Your suffering may end here and now." A mental tentacle penetrated the depths of the mortal's consciousness. The man's painful breathing faltered at the intrusion and the discomfort it had brought. Sauron smiled.

"Do you desire to die?"

The man shifted. His drowsiness had gone, leaving in place only the misery of reality. The mortal understood the offer and it tempted him. To be delivered from this suffering. Overwhelmed by his agony he could not even dream of this. But as this thought materialised he desired it more than anything.

Yet with this thought came the images of such a dishonourable death amongst enemies. Betrayed. Purged from remembrance. He almost suffocated from the surge of hatred his thoughts invoked.

 _The Queen..._

 _I cannot die like this, not unvindicated. They must pay…_

Sauron tilted his head as the mortal's thoughts were exposed to him. His slim fingers slowly brushed against the Prince's still hand to deliver a wave of power. It ran through the mortal's intoxicated veins, soothing the unceasing pain.

"Do you desire to live?" At this question the man's heart began to pound faster. Concentrating as he was, Sauron could hear the beats.

 _One, two, three, four..._

After the fourth beat the man's hand searched for the Maia's and clenched it, gathering all his remaining living force.

"I will grant that to you." Sauron whispered after a short pause.

He thought of the Queen, recalling how she looked in his spy's mind. Determined, stalwart, powerful. A woman with jet black hair and stern grey eyes. The eyes from his past that had haunted him. They delivered light shivers to him, as well as shame and a tinge of longing.

 _Noteworthy for a mortal. And this one..._

If the Prince resembled her in her temper, Sauron would not allow this opportunity to slip away. To have her descendant at his side. For revenge. For memory. For self-indulge. What a precious occasion.

 _Shall I?_

He looked at the mortal again to evaluate the damage his ruined flesh had suffered. His mind weighed the consequences. A great extent of his divine power was to be sacrificed without any hope of being replenished.

 _Is he worthy of such expense? Do I need him?_

He remembered the mortals and the elves in the dungeons of Angband.

The mortals were so pliable and promising, unlike the stiff Elves. Elves never learnt new tricks, instead they broke in a most inept way. Yet the Gift confined the talents of Men.

 _Shall I grant him the ring?_


	5. The master and the servant

When he was left alone and no one could see him Sauron reclined against his throne and closed his eye. Guilt was not the feelings that he would experience but giving way to the burst of temper with Khamul was not right. It merely served as another evidence of his weakness, as a proof that the situation hit him deeper than he could foresee.

 _I must be turning man-like._

A soon as it came to his head, he cringed and drove this thought away with scorn. Nonetheless, the Easterling was right. It took him too long to realise, that the moment of idleness had lasted too long. Instead of mourning he could try to salvage anything out of this situation. The battle was lost, yet the war was not. And the most important, he supposed, that his servant might not be lost entirely either. The surge of nausea at this thought made him recoil.

 _This body gets tiresome and truly humanlike. I need my Ring._

And then quelling all sickness, he forced himself to rise. Unsteadily he approached the window, arms crossed, his gaze scrutinized the sight below. The sight of his war machine set to motion - his orcs, his men let him distract from the needless emotions.

He had put so much of his power into the Witch-king, much more than into any other of the Nazgul. An investment for eternity, that ended so foolishly.

Now he knew, that its source was almost depleted with no way of replenishment.

It would be absolutely impossible to restore his servant to his former might in his own wretched state when he could barely sustain his own body. Still, the Witch-king's soul should have lingered where he had fallen, bound by his vows and the magic of his ring. And the ring was still intact with him keeping all nine of them under his control. That meant that the Witch-king's soul could be recovered and preserved, at that moment such magic seemed affordable enough.

He retired to his chambers to touch the box with the rings. With unsteady hands he opened it and took the one with the red gem. Tentatively his fingers ran over its edges. Too large for his own hand.

 _Do you feel me?_ he asked the ring in his mind.

Even unasked the other eight still responded to his thought with a light throbbing against his mind. But the ring with the red gem remained silent. With sudden and violent fierceness he constricted it in his fist, in a vain attempt trying to squeeze any semblance of response out of it. Then his grip weakened. And so he stood for some time, with the eye closed, holding it and reluctant to put it back. Then abruptly he returned the ring closing the box with a loud snap. The sound made him wince almost in pain.

He still possessed a collection of other jewelry in his chambers and he looked around, searching for an appropriate object. Something that could enclose a soul within.

Perhaps another ring, a pendant, a gem? He supposed, that it could suffice, until better opportunities, probably until he himself gained his own Ring.

Yet it was not the only obstacle and his useless toy armies served as a mocking reminder of it. He approached the table with the maps of the battlefield. With one frantic sweep of his fingers, he sent all the tiny troops to the floor. They had lost the battle and the control over the land. The forces of Men could easily interrupt the spell, rendering him utterly powerless. That was unacceptable and to not let it happen he needed his Ring back.

* * *

 ** _The end_**

They lost precious time. In desperation he called for the remaining Nazgul, but he knew they would arrive too late to interfere with those small creatures, who were carrying his Ring and his demise. Powerless he could only wait. He felt fear slowly creep into his mind and will. It was not the death he feared, but that, what would come next. Without the Ring his exhausted fea would not be strong enough to linger on Arda and the Valar might summon it. For trial. And if they found his guilt heavy enough, they would send him to the Void. This thought covered his skin with cold sweat.

 _I must not think of it,_ he whispered to himself.

And he could not help but think of it and only of it.

The Ring started to melt and with it - every cell of his body dissipated, and Sauron knew, that it was the end. The end of him. It was painful to die, was supposed to be, but stricken by fear he barely registered it. His blood froze, ceased to run sealing his veins and it paralyzed him. He felt cold, alone and forsaken like never before.

… _not the Void... Please no..._

The tower all trembled and so did he. He embraced himself with his arms, nails dug deep into the shoulders. His last thought was helpless, obsessed with the outcome.

 _What will happen to me? what will happen to me what will happen to..._

The Ring started to melt and with it - his soul dissipated, and the Witch-king knew, that it was the end. The end of them both. His soul excoriated layer by layer, each one with its own mind and consciousness, its own suffering and its own convulsion.

Khamul and the rest of the Nazgul had failed to protect his Master. If he could, he would wrest their rotten hearts out of their chests and crush them one by one with his palm. Yet not to them his last thought aspired.

 _I only want to be with you._

The last agonising shards of his mind still envisioned, how he would embrace his Master, shielding him. Covering his fragile body with his own. Sheltering him from harm, from the world. Holding him tight. And finally whispering the words he had never spoken before.

 _Master, I lo…_


End file.
